


Winter's Tail

by otter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Horse AU, Horses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 02:33:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otter/pseuds/otter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monday was the actual best. Stiles had a good hour before he would be officially working, his hands were warm despite the weather because he had them wrapped around two wonderful-smelling hot coffee beverages, and he was leaning on the paddock fence, watching Derek Hale catch his horse for him. Mondays were made out of rainbows and magic, and nobody would ever convince Stiles otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter's Tail

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DevilDoll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilDoll/gifts).



> I'm failing at titles today. The alternate ideas for this one included "The Derek Hale Tail Appreciation Society" and "Derek Hale and the Pony Club Adventure." I'm sorry. I haven't had this story beta'ed either because of reasons of laziness. I'm in some sort of Christmas posting frenzy, I can't seem to stop.

Stiles fucking _loved_ Mondays.

It wasn’t a direction he ever expected his life to take, because there was a reason why Monday was almost universally regarded as the shittiest day of the week, and Stiles never, ever expected to fall intensely, passionately in love with it. But then, he supposed there were all sorts of things that people wouldn’t think would be good together that turned out to be perfect for each other. He had plenty of examples immediately on hand: himself and Mondays, salt and caramel in his morning macchiato, Derek’s ass and those breeches.

Well, okay. Nobody anywhere ever thought that Derek’s ass and any sort of breeches wouldn’t go well together. That wasn’t a good example. He gave himself a pass on it because it was still early — ten to six in the morning, which on any normal day Stiles would consider too early to be _alive_ — and his focus was being derailed, because Derek. And the breeches.

Nothing could touch his good mood, though, because Monday was the actual best. He could hear the tractor running in the barn, which meant that Carl was in there with the harrow, dragging the indoor. The footing was going to be all fluffy, soft and deliciously squishy under his boots, and Stiles seriously could not _wait._ He had a good hour before he would be officially working, his hands were warm despite the weather because he had them wrapped around two wonderful-smelling hot coffee beverages, and he was leaning on the paddock fence, watching Derek Hale catch his horse for him.

Mondays were made out of rainbows and magic, and nobody would ever convince Stiles otherwise.

It had stormed pretty much all weekend and had yet to warm up, so the entire property was snow-blanketed and icy. It wasn’t exactly Stiles’ favorite riding weather, but it was picturesque as hell, the way the snow had draped itself over the gables of the main barn and frosted the little horse-shaped weathervane on top. The guys on the barn crew — Stiles _loved_ them, they were his second-favorite, after Mondays — had already plowed clear the parking area, and they’d even gone so far as to carve a bunch of little paths along the main thoroughfares. There was a neat spiderweb of walkways running from the main barn outward to the hay barn, the outdoor tack sheds, the equipment barn, the machinery barn, even right up to the paddock gates. He could see the little plow already running inside the farthest pasture, too, making paths around the perimeter and up to the shelters and water troughs so the horses wouldn't have to tire themselves out just wading through it all. Otherwise, there were hardly even footprints marking the landscape; typically the barn was busiest on weekends, but the bad weather and road conditions had kept most everyone away. Even Stiles had spent most of Saturday holed up in the barn office, working on his filing system, only occasionally wandering out to lean on the rail of the indoor and watch Laura and Derek ride.

He was the very picture of restraint, seriously. But it was Monday now, glorious Monday, and Derek was trudging through the calf-deep snow in the pasture with Stiles’ horse on the other end of the lead rope, and all was right with the world.

Well, all was mostly right with the world, because Stiles’ horse was wearing the tattered remains of a half-shredded winter blanket and a completely smug expression.

“Fourth one this month,” Derek pointed out, helpfully, when he looked up and saw Stiles waiting for him. He looked kind of smug, too, which didn’t seem right since he hadn’t been the one to help Megaman destroy his winterwear. (Even if Stiles hadn’t already known who the culprit was, the guilty look that Cosmo was wearing was probably easily visible from _space,_ much less from the other end of the paddock.)

“I think he’s insulting my horseware fashion choices,” Stiles said, opening up the paddock gate so Derek and Mega could walk through. “He thinks my tastes are too plain. He’s angling for one of those stripey Newmarket numbers like Hillary buys for her thoroughbreds.”

Derek snorted, trading Stiles the horse for the extra cup of coffee. Stiles draped the lead rope over Mega’s neck — even if Mega wasn’t already inclined to just follow them into the barn like a puppy, he was definitely too lazy to forge his own path through the snow to make good his escape — and the horse trudged along behind as they headed back toward the barn. His head drooped and his eyes blinked slowly, like he was disappointed that Stiles hadn’t brought him a coffee, too.

“Thanks for catching him for me,” Stiles said. If his shoulder brushed Derek’s as they walked it was only because the path wasn’t quite wide enough for two.

Derek shrugged. “Already had my tall boots on.”

Stiles smiled against the plastic lid of his cup, and let the heat of his coffee and Derek’s non-admission warm him through from the inside. Derek’s own horse was stalled in the main barn, and there was no reason why Derek had had to brave the snow at all, except that he’d obviously been sitting in the tack room, pulling on his boots and _thinking about Stiles._

It was warmer in the barn, and by the time they got there, Carl had finished with the harrow and was gone, so it was quiet, too. Nobody would ever quite believe it if he told them, but that was the part of it that Stiles liked the best: the easy near-silence. There were all the regular, comforting sounds of the barn: hay rustling as the stalled horses finished up their breakfasts, the muffled clopping of Bee’s shoes against the rubber mats as Derek led her out of her stall, the rhythmic rasp of the brush as Stiles cleaned the dirt from Mega’s copper-bright coat. Stiles listened to Derek’s breathing and the familiar way that Mega grunted to himself like he was still waking up, and Stiles felt the heat of his own happiness right down to his soul.

Stiles was grooming Mega’s near side when he felt Derek slip in behind him, both of them occupying the intimate space between two dozing animals; Stiles thought Derek might say something, might _do_ something, in that little bubble of false privacy. His heart was thundering in his chest at the mere idea of it: a brushing of elbows that would lead to a more deliberate touch, Derek’s fingers curled around his wrist, drawing them in so close together that they could feel each other’s body heat, could share the same breath.

None of that happened, though; Stiles was just terrifyingly _aware_ of Derek for those few minutes, had to look very studiously _anywhere_ else so he wouldn’t stare as Derek bent over to pick Bee’s hooves. He listened to the sound of hoof pick against horseshoe and it was no fucking good; the way Derek’s _everything_ looked when he was picking hooves was already seared into Stiles’ brain from a million not particularly well hidden glances, so there was no point in _not_ looking now.

So he looked. He _loved_ those winter breeches, and the well-worth leather patch across the seat, and the way the insulated tall boots hugged Derek’s calves while simultaneously making him look a little bit like a futuristic action hero, and Derek was straightening up and staring back at Stiles and this was actually a little awkward.

All Derek said was, “We should get to it or we’re going to run out of time. You want a saddle?”

“It’s _winter,_ Derek, why would I want anything between myself and the large space heater that is my horse?”

“Fair point,” Derek agreed, and wandered off toward the tack room.

Stiles sagged against Megaman’s side — the horse didn’t seem to notice — and didn’t move until Derek came back with their helmets, passing Stiles’ to him like nothing had happened.

They didn’t bother with bridles, even, just tied their lead ropes around into makeshift reins, because Monday mornings weren’t for serious riding, they were for tooling around the indoor like complete idiots and giving Stiles plenty of time to stare longingly at the shape of Derek’s legs wrapped around his horse’s body. At least that’s what Stiles had been doing for the past year, ever since he took the barn manager job, and he saw no reason to break tradition now.

Derek didn’t seem to have a problem with breaking tradition, though, because instead of going off to ride some lazy circles and put his horse through basic exercises like he usually did, he stuck with Stiles instead. They walked a few laps together at the rail, riding so close that their knees occasionally brushed. Stiles talked about some story he’d read on the Internet and Derek smiled and didn’t say much of anything. After awhile they didn’t talk at all, just rode around and goofed off. Stiles picked up a manure fork and tennis ball from just outside the arena fence — given the shape the ball was in, grungy and dirt-coated, Stiles deduced it had been abandoned by Laura's dog — and tried to explain polocrosse to Derek.

He didn't get it, or probably more accurately didn't care, although he smiled indulgently and pointed out the exact moment when Megaman lost his patience for Stiles swinging a manure fork around his person. When he put the fork down, Derek rode in close again, sighed and said, "The hour's up. You want to help me catch ponies?"

"Yeah, okay," Stiles said, letting himself slide off MegaMan's back and pulling off his helmet. Mega didn't exactly need a cool-down, so he just led the old man back out to his paddock — he'd have to run to the tack store later for yet another winter blanket, he knew the measurements by heart now — and then he trudged over to the next paddock gate, where Derek was waiting with a whole collection of small halters slung over his arm.

Stiles was prepared for a struggle — the ponies usually liked to run him around a little, just out of principle — but Muffinpuff actually seemed to be snoring as Stiles delicately lifted the halter around her muzzle, and Pumpkin ambled over to him on her own, looking for carrots. (He had one. Of course he had one. He was trying to catch _ponies,_ he knew better than to come without an offering.) Lancelot looked like he was considering making a break for it, when he saw Stiles coming with the two other ponies already in tow, but he only took a few steps before he seemed to decide that the snow was deep enough and his legs were short enough that it just wasn't going to be worth it. He seemed happy about his carrot, at least, and he only tried to walk away twice while Stiles was putting the halter on.

They made it back to the barn first — when Stiles was already headed out of the paddock with his three, Derek was still working on catching his last one — so Stiles got to work on grooming, scraping the ice from the ponies' backs, doing his best to dry them off with a towel, and then starting in with the brushes. Steam started to rise from their coats as the last of the moisture evaporated, and he was nearly done with his three, just waiting for them to dry a little more before he tacked up, by the time Derek walked in with the rest.

They got a good fifteen minutes, standing too close to each other and cleaning up waist-high horses, before the parents started straggling in with their excited, bright-eyed kids. Most of them were already dressed for riding, in their little jodhpurs and puffy winter coats, but they'd need help tying their riding boots and fitting their helmets, and Stiles' life would be easier if he put the coffeemaker on for the parents, so he straightened up, touched his hand to Derek's back as he brushed by, and left Derek to finish with the tack.

Stiles was trapped between a pair of aggressively flirting Pony Club moms when Laura finally showed up; she met his pleading look with a careless grin, and slipped right past him into the arena, where Derek had already started getting the kids mounted up.

Stiles escaped into his office for a half hour, checked the answering machine and returned a few calls, filed the paperwork for their newest boarder, and noted which horses the farrier was due to work on when she arrived later in the afternoon, so he could have them haltered and ready. Then he indulged himself, went back out to the arena and leaned against the fence, watching Derek and Laura run their tiny Pony Clubbers through some basic exercises, trotting over a line of poles with reins dropped and arms held out.

His favorite part of Mondays was the shared stillness of the mornings, but his second favorite part was watching Derek wrangle a bunch of extra-tiny Pony Club kids. Even when mounted, most of them weren't tall enough to reach Derek's shoulders, and Stiles personally found them a little terrifying, but Derek was _good_ with them, really good, like the kind of good that could prompt a person to stare and get lost in deep thoughts about how spectacular a father Derek would make.

Not that Stiles had ever done that.

If he had, though, he wouldn't have been the only one; Derek was definitely popular with the single parents, and some of the not-single ones, and the fact that he gave his little fan club absolutely no encouragement didn't seem to slow them down much.

"He sure is something to look at, isn't he?" Christy's mom said, slipping in next to Stiles at the rail and mirroring his pose, one foot propped up on the lowest rail, forearms resting on a higher one.

"Who, Lancelot?" Stiles said, imbuing the ridiculous question with all of the obliviousness at his disposal. The pony Christy was riding was not, in fact, much of anything to look at; he was small and white and rounder than he ought to be, and he had a spectacular fluffy beard. Stiles loved him, in the way he loved all things that were simultaneously cute and evil, but nobody was actually talking about Lancelot. Stiles wasn't _actually_ that stupid.

"Who's Lancelot?" Christy's mom said, and she wasn't even screwing with him, she just didn't know the name of the pony that her daughter had been riding — and been madly in love with — for the past six months. God, that was depressing. "I'm talking about _Derek,_ are you blind? Look at the man."

Stiles was looking already. Stiles was _always_ looking. It was occasionally a problem, like that time Laura caught him staring at Derek's ass and mocked him mercilessly for a week, or the time that he got so distracted watching Derek oiling tack that he actually ran straight into the roll-up door before realizing it was closed. Derek was a _hazard,_ and Stiles really didn't need anybody to tell him about it.

"Oh," Stiles said, and what he was thinking was _abort, abort, abort,_ because he was not equipped for this kind of shit. It was _Monday,_ which he was considering renaming Derekday, and he was not prepared to have some overenthusiastic parents stomping all over his private meditations on Derek Hale's various assets, thank you very much. Derek was all the way at the other end of the arena and couldn't possibly hear them, but there was no possible correct answer to that kind of completely inappropriate conversation.

Unfortunately, Laura happened to be _not_ at the other end of the arena, and she swept into the not-even-a-conversation like she'd just been waiting for her opening. She shouted encouragement to her little group of four, who were trotting 20-meter circles, and leaned back against the rail right next to Stiles.

"I think you might've missed your chance there, Janet," she said, but the look she cut to Stiles was one hundred percent _I'm talking to you, dumbass._ Her eyebrows implied that she was profoundly disappointed in Stiles and his complete lack of game. "He went out last night and didn't come home until this morning. I think my precious baby brother might've finally found somebody else's bed to warm."

"Oh my god," Stiles said, and stared down at the arena dirt because it was easier than dealing with Laura gossiping about her own brother's sex life. Stiles was an only child, so maybe there was some kind of sibling code he wasn't aware of, but who even _did_ that?

"Well, I sure wish it'd been mine," Janet said, with a wistful sigh. "Look at that ass in those breeches."

"I need to— um," Stiles said, and fled into the tack room, where he had very important things to do, like moving some girths from one rack to another and then back again, and then examining the lesson saddles in excruciating detail, one at a time, looking for the slightest signs of wear in the stitching. He actually found one that he'd need to have their saddler look at, where the knee roll was starting to strain the seams, so he could even truthfully said that his visit to the tack room was productive.

By the time he turned to leave — which was basically the point where he heard car doors starting to slam shut outside, as parents loaded their kids in their cars to head home — it was already too late to slink, unnoticed, from the tack room back to his office. He turned around, and Derek was standing in the doorway with a little pony saddle and matching bridle dangling from one arm, and a sour expression on his face.

"Oh, hey," Stiles said, and leaned on the nearest equipment stand in an attempt to look casual. It might've even worked, if it hadn't been a saddle pad rack, the one that folded back against the wall to save space; it swung beneath his weight and nearly sent him sprawling onto his face. He caught himself, but only just, and there was a certain amount of undignified flailing involved.

"You weren't watching," Derek said, and he sounded genuinely annoyed about it, sliding the tack he was carrying into its proper place with just a touch more force than was necessary, especially considering its size.

"I had to, um. Check the saddles. For wear. Might have to send that close contact out to have the stitching redone."

"You always watch on Mondays, you said it's like watching Ewoks taking riding lessons," Derek said. He ignored the completely lame excuse, turned around and gave Stiles a little shove, pressing him back against the wall where they couldn't be easily seen through the open doorway.

"Laura was discussing your love life with one of the parents, I couldn't deal with it, I'm sorry," Stiles said. He wasn't very sorry, though, if Derek's version of upset always involved pressing in close, breathing the same air, sharing a slow, deep, leisurely kiss with one hand on Stiles' hip and the other curling around the back of his skull, pulling him in closer.

"That does sound very unprofessional," Derek agreed, and the smile he pressed against Stiles' cheek said a lot about his own opinion of unprofessional behavior. Like making out in the barn when he had tack to put away.

 _"Apparently_ you spent the evening away from home, presumably in the embrace of a _secret lover,"_ Stiles said, in a scandalized, overly-loud whisper.

Derek gasped. "How shocking," he said, and slid his hand down from Stiles' hip to the slope of his ass.

"Laura gave me the eyebrows like she was disappointed in me for continuing to not make a move."

"Well, I for one think your moves are fantastic," Derek said. He nipped at the corner of Stiles' jaw, then scraped his teeth over the shell of Stiles' ear. "All of them. Especially that one with your tongue."

"I like that one too, I'll teach it to you sometime," Stiles turned his head, caught Derek's lips again, and made sure their next kiss was wet, filthy, and deeply involved the aforementioned tongue. When he finally broke away again to breathe, he said, "You going to tell her where you were last night?"

"Well, that depends. If she's stuck around to help with the tack and the ponies like she's supposed to, then she'll already know, because we've been alone together in this tack room for a lot longer than it actually takes to hang a saddle on a rack."

"True," Stiles conceded. "But there's no universe in which she's not avoiding pony duty right now."

"I guess her gossip's going to stay out of date for awhile, then," Derek said. He pulled back reluctantly, hands sliding away, and finally put some space between them. "Lucky for me, you're going to keep helping me out on Mondays, so the chores will get done just as quickly anyway."

"Oh I am, am I?" Stiles raised his eyebrows and leaned back against the wall in a way that he hoped looked at least a little alluring, his hips pressed forward and his shoulders drawn back. "I don't know, I used to help you out as an excuse to shamelessly ogle your body. But now I can do that anytime. Sometimes even when you're naked."

Derek shrugged, and the truth was that he was always going to be better at alluring looks. A _lot_ better. He threw one back over his shoulder as he turned and walked toward the door. "Doesn't mean you should cut back on your ogling," he said. "Have you _seen_ my ass in these breeches?"

Stiles helped him with the ponies. He also helped Derek with some horse show entry forms, elbow to elbow in Stiles' office, their knees brushing together beneath the desk. Derek helped him, too, between lessons, with getting horses ready for the farrier, fitting Megaman's new blanket, and feeding the evening supplements. They even helped each other with scraping the fresh coating of snow and ice from their respective vehicles at the end of the workday.

And when they got back to Stiles' apartment, he helped Derek get those breeches off, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Virtualcarrot drew some wonderful fan art for this story that you can find on my tumblr [here](http://agentotter.tumblr.com/post/71284363264/winters-tail-otter-teen-wolf-tv-archive-of-our), or on virtualcarrot's tumblr [here](http://virtualcarrot.tumblr.com/post/71241378690/winters-tail-otter-teen-wolf-tv-archive-of-our). So amazing. So perf.


End file.
